


a little ghost in natural colours

by higgsbosonblues



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Drabbles, M/M, ficlet drawer, tumblr ask meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-01 13:38:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15775188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/higgsbosonblues/pseuds/higgsbosonblues
Summary: A collection of drabbles/ficlets from a tumblr ask box meme.





	1. sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Jev/André, for lewishamlton.

When he thinks back on this summer, his senses will always be filled with Jev. The heatwave that stretches across Europe in the off-season slows them all down for once, forces them to relax. Mykonos tastes of seafood cooked on coals, sauvignon blanc from bottles packed in salted ice, the chemical smell of chlorine and sun cream on Jev’s warm skin, the same song playing on the radio over and over again.

The strong sun gives him endless excuses to look, to touch. He rubs sunscreen into Jev’s slim shoulders when he asks, watching him from behind the mirrored lenses of his shades as they relax by the pool. He’s grateful for their shielding quality, for the way he can stare at the elegant lines of Jev’s waist and the sinews in his arms in relative secrecy.

“I want to stay here forever,” Jev says one evening while they’re still in Greece, stretched out like a cat along the warm flagstones surrounding the pool. André is still in the water, leaning against the tiles with his arms pillowing his chin. “Just lying about, eating good food, getting tan…”

André dares to reach out, brush his fingers over Jev’s nose, just below the bridge of his sunglasses. Jev smiles, doesn’t pull away. “You’d get bored after a week,” André says.

“Maybe,” Jev murmurs, and André takes a breath, touches Jev’s lips lightly with the pads of his fingers then retreats. Jean-Éric turns his head, rolls on to his side so he’s facing André properly and takes off his sunglasses, squinting at him. “When we’re old and grey, we could move here for good.”

“I’m already grey,” André points out, flicking water at Jev, who bats at him lazily.

“Then let’s stay,” Jev says as though that settles the matter, reaching out with remarkable speed to grab André’s hand before he can splash him again. André pulls and Jev goes with him, allowing himself to be hauled into the pool. André has just enough time to yank his own sunglasses off and toss them on to his towel, out of harm’s way, before Jev drags him under, laughing, hands hot on his skin in the cool water.

Jev’s skin tastes of salt and chlorine under André’s mouth, and the heat of the sun has ripened him like a peach, soft and yielding. The summer stretches out before them, and André feels it in his bones in a way he hasn’t since he was a kid: the endless sun, the possibility of something more.


	2. grinding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jev/André, for lost_decade.

Racing drivers are a touchy-feely bunch at the best of times, but the Formula E paddock is something else again, and their collective penchant for partying doesn’t help matters. At first Jean-Éric had been a little taken aback by the ease with which his fellow drivers would dance with him, sit on his lap, casually manhandle him, but he’s always been a sucker for physical contact. By the time André came along and insinuated himself firmly into Jev’s team, then his personal space and finally his entire life, it didn’t occur to him to put up a fight.

Santiago calls for celebrating, and celebrating calls for loud music, strong drinks, the lure of decisions they might regret in the morning. To which end, Jev had allowed André to feed him a shot of Jaegermeister that made his eyes water, and then dragged him on to the dance floor, into the middle of a throng of bodies.

For all his physical heft, André is a surprisingly good dancer, and Jev is drunk enough and happy enough to go with it. André’s hands are firm on the curve of his waist, guiding him into a rhythm that follows the bass of the rap blasting from the sound system. They’re laughing at first, swaying to the beat, a few inches between their bodies, but then someone knocks into Jev and he stumbles forward, into André’s broad chest. André draws him in tight, his hands sliding to the small of Jev’s back. The laughter dies in his throat, the heat and solidity of Andre’s body against his sobering him up. His own hands have found their way to André’s waist, fingers tangled into his belt loops. Their hips fit together naturally, André still guiding their movements. The alcohol makes it easy to let it happen, and Jev drops his forehead to the curve of André’s neck, pressing closer as André’s hips move against his slow and dirty.

It’s in the back of his mind that they shouldn’t be doing this, at least not in public - at some point they’ve crossed the line from drunken messing about to something altogether more explicit and there’s no telling who could be watching, taking photos even, but god, it feels so good that he can’t stop. André’s erection presses into the curve of his hip and the feel of it excites him, makes him think of what André’s body would be like beneath his clothes, what his cock might feel like in his hand or his mouth.

André rolls his hips, pushing his hand beneath the hem of his shirt, and Jev turns his head to the side, mouthing at André’s neck, licking the sweat from his skin. A light tremor runs through André’s body and he draws Jev even closer, their bodies flush from the shoulders down, and then the song ends, segueing into something too upbeat to keep the fragile balance of their mood. Jev pulls back first, shaky, staring at André through the coloured lights playing over his face.

André holds out his hand, beckoning, and Jev knows he should say no, drink some water, go back to his own hotel room and his cold bed, but then André grins at him, open and expectant and maybe a little bit hopeful, and Jev can’t do anything but take his hand and follow.


	3. first kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jev/André, for lost_decade.

Of all the things André has done for him this year, introducing Jev to the concept of a post-qualifying nap is in the top five. André elevates napping to an art form in general, and when Jev had walked in to the driver room and disturbed him for the fourth time in one weekend, André had groaned and shifted up on his mattress pad and mumbled, “For the love of all that is holy, will you come and lie down so I can get some sleep?”

“There isn’t enough space for us both on that thing,” Jev said. “Besides, this is my room too.”

“We can spoon,” André said, deadpan. “Or at least shut the door and shut the fuck up.” Still, he didn’t complain when Jev sat down on the floor next to him and stuck his earpods in. When he’d glanced down at André five minutes later, the older driver was fast asleep again, a slight frown creasing his forehead.

At the next race another mattress pad appeared, rolled up and sealed in plastic, propped against the wall of their room. André had unwrapped it wordlessly, nudged it into place next to his own and kicked off his shoes, and that was seemingly that. Jev began to look forward to their snatched moments of peace, curled together in the corner of a glorified store room.

The weather in Mexico makes him long for air conditioning in the garages. _Where are u,_ he texts André after half an hour spent wandering around the track. _I’m buying iced coffee._ He’s unsure when he started feeling the need to narrate his life to André like this. Half the time André doesn’t even reply, though he’s never given any indication of minding. Jean-Éric’s phone buzzes: _Siesta. Bring me a latte._

Jev rolls his eyes at that in a way that feels awfully fond. When he gets back to the garage and into their room, André is topless, in sweatpants, stretched out along his mattress with his earphones in. He accepts his iced latte graciously and without saying thank you.

The room is more cramped than usual, which is really saying something, and when Jean-Éric lies down he can feel the heat radiating from André’s body next to him. André rolls on to his side to face him, offering him an earbud and immediately closing his eyes again. “You’re supposed to drink coffee then sleep for 20 minutes,” he says. “Then you feel great. It’s a science thing. I’m gonna test it out.”

Jean-Éric watches him for a moment, cataloguing the muscles in his shoulders and the light dusting of hair across his chest. The sultry air presses him into the mattress and he closes his eyes too, the volume of whatever weird electronica André is listening to barely audible and lulling him into relaxation.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes because André’s breath is hot on his cheek. They’ve gravitated towards each other in sleep, their foreheads almost touching, knees brushing. Before he has time to pull back, André stirs and opens his eyes, the blue of them all the more intense for their close proximity.

“Hey,” André says, a little gravelly, and his expression is so unguarded that it makes the hairs on the back of Jev’s neck prickle. He opens his mouth to reply, but somehow along the way it turns into a gasp, because André has leaned in to close the gap between them down to nothing, kissing him slow and deep. It’s Jev’s first instinct to pull away, to panic, but then André’s hand is at his jaw, soothing, and he tastes like milky coffee and sleep. Jev blinks stupidly when André starts giggling, eyes creasing, his thumb reaching to touch Jev’s bottom lip lightly then retreating.

“Look at that, it worked,” André says. Jev works up the courage to trail his fingers down André’s bare chest. “I drink a coffee, I nap for 20 minutes, and now I feel great.”


	4. throne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daniel/Max, for captainfuu.

Max is a lion, so he says, but it’s Daniel who’s golden. It’s in the paler flecks that catch the light in his eyes, in the honeyed skin that tastes of the sea even when they’ve been landlocked for weeks. It’s in the way he stands with his back against the door, so utterly composed as Max kneels at his feet and tears himself to pieces. It’s in the way he calls the shots, deciding when and where they fuck, how deep their friendship runs, how it all ends.

Dan wears light like a shield, using it to refract attention from the parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone else to see. He acts young but he’s an old soul, Max thinks. Sometimes the years between them mean nothing at all, just pages on a calendar; on other days they might as well be speaking different languages and the gulf of time accrued and experiences weathered stretches out between them until he can barely see Dan at all. On those days he understands how young he really is, how little he knows of the human heart, and he hates it.

English sits thick and clumsy on his tongue, a crude tool to fashion thoughts he can barely comprehend in his mother tongue. He tries to speak with his body instead, prostrates himself for Daniel to take what he wants in the wild and pointless hope that it might be enough. He bows his head, supplicant, would kiss the paler skin of his feet if he thought it might help. Daniel stares out of the window, into the sun.

Now Max is tying up his shoelaces, thinking of sea spray, oceans so blue they’re almost black. Lately he’s cold all the time. More a lizard than a lion, he thinks, and fights the urge to bask in Dan’s warmth. Next year Daniel will wear sunshine colours. Max will sit above him on the grid and the WDC trophy will be so close he can almost taste it, metallic like blood, where for Daniel it will be a distant dream. They will pass each other occasionally in the paddock and smile and wave like they can’t remember the taste of the other’s spit.

Dan may be a creature of heat, but he speaks only when it’s dark. The evenings are closing in; autumn is approaching in the places Max calls home. “You know that none of this is about you, right?”

Max looks up and again there is distance. The year is slipping through his fingers. Daniel’s fingers are twisted together in his lap, a nervous tic left over from the boy he once was. He stares at Max with parted lips, an exiled king who sees a loyal former subject in the wilderness and still waits to be worshipped. “No,” Max says. “I know.”


	5. open your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daniel/Max, for sleepysuggles

Max has been watching him for ages now, but maybe Dan is just used to people staring at him. Dan touches more than he looks. A hand to the small of the back, arm around the shoulders in an interview. He holds Max’s hand while they film for the Red Bull YouTube channel, and afterwards he wanders off as if it’s nothing at all.

He walks into the back of the garage and Dan is topless. Dan gives him a strange glance when he catches Max’s glazed expression, reaching for a team shirt to cover himself up. They’ve never been shy around each other before, but it’s getting harder to police his reactions. _Just teammates_ , he tells himself firmly as he tries to drag his gaze away from the curve of Dan’s belly. _Nothing more than that._

“You good?” Dan says, curious, and Max nods. His fingers itch to touch the smooth brown skin of Dan’s arms. He focuses on the crook of his elbow, the softer flesh there, thinks about the sounds Dan might make if he were to apply his tongue and teeth.

“Fine,” Max says, and turns away before Dan can reply, getting out his phone to give his hands something to do.

It’s loud enough in the garage that Max doesn’t hear him approach, and he’s not proud of the bewildered squeak he makes when Dan’s hands wrap around his face from behind, covering his eyes in a warm darkness that he instantly wants to sink into. The heat of Dan’s body radiates out, so close. In the moment of silence before Dan speaks, Max thinks about the scant inches between them, just one step to press back against Dan’s chest and potentially destroy everything he’s worked for his entire life.

“You were looking at me,” Dan says beneath the sound of an engine being fired up, and Max takes a breath, pauses, nods the best he can with Dan’s hands still wrapped around his closed eyes. His breath is warm and ticklish on the back of Max’s neck, and Max feels his eyelids flicker with the tension, brushing against Dan’s fingers. “You do it all the time.”

“I didn’t think you’d noticed,” Max says. His face is warm with embarrassment, and he struggles in Dan’s grip. If Dan is looking to humiliate him, he’d rather it didn’t happen just before a race. “It’s nothing.”

Dan laughs softly and taps his thumbs lightly against Max’s temples. “Nah, it’s not,” he says, assured as ever, and takes his hands away from Max’s eyes to grip his shoulders instead and spin him round. The sudden influx of halogen light is a shock to his senses, and Max keeps his eyes screwed shut when Dan brings him round to face him.

“Open your eyes,” Dan says, quieter now, his words almost lost beneath the garage din. Max steels himself, blinks himself back to the world. Dan is smiling, one eye-tooth hooked over his bottom lip thoughtfully. Max inhales once, twice.

“What -“ Max says and breaks off, doesn’t know what he’s asking. Dan’s hands slide from his shoulders down his arms, and Max can’t hide the shiver as skin touches skin.

“You can do more than look,” Dan tells him just before their lips touch, and Max finds he doesn’t need to keep his eyes open anymore because all of his senses are filled with Dan, always Dan.


	6. with you / coming home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucas/Daniel, for anxiandy

There are a great many things to take into account when driving a race car, but chief amongst them is balance. At its heart, racing is a balancing act, after all: between friction and motion, between attack and decay, between speed and control. Talk to any driver about their skills, and they will tell you, in so many words, of their ability to harness that rare and shining moment of harmony, the machine beneath their thighs scything through the air at a velocity a hair’s breadth from disaster. Their lives may be chaotic, a beautiful glittering mess, but each of them spins around his own private axis. Lucas is his.

By anyone’s standards, four years is a long time. Near enough a fifth of Daniel’s life. In racing terms, it’s practically a lifetime. Lucas is a part of his life in the same way that eating food and driving cars are a part of his life: his continued presence taken for granted, his touchstone through the scattershot lives they lead. Daniel had been 21 when Lucas first touched him, _an adult now_ he’d breathed in the Brazilian’s ear mostly just to fuck with him. What had once felt exciting and transgressive has had its edges smoothed off with the passage of time, like a blade on a whetstone, honed into something essential.

In a run of races, of hotel rooms that all look the same - different colour schemes, different abstract watercolour paintings above the bed, but that’s it - the familiarity of Lucas’ body on top of his is more reassurance than eroticism. He tells Lucas this, and Lucas laughs and pauses in slicking up his fingers.

“You know that’s not exactly a compliment,” he says, pushing Daniel’s legs apart so he can kneel between them. “If anything it’s a challenge.”

It’s not what Daniel means. They’ll never be a settled couple in the traditional sense of the term. They’re barely a couple at all. He wants to explain, tell him that it’s a good thing, the way Lucas’ stubble on his thighs prickles the same way just before he bites down no matter what city they’re in, but Lucas is moving his hand so slowly and with such intent that he can’t say a word.

They move together just as they always do, each a fulcrum to the other, Lucas’ hand tight across Daniel’s mouth to keep the sound from spilling out. Their lives spool out before them, so fast Daniel sometimes thinks he will have no choice but to take his hands off the wheel and let the barrier rise to meet him, but Lucas’ hands on his hips will always bring him home.


End file.
